


The Waves

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Series: a starving heart and a smile that makes it race [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After the church, Aziraphale realises his feelings, M/M, Nothing a good cup of tea made by the love of your life won't solve, Pre-Relationship, and needs an ocean to cope with them, second world war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:44:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: Aziraphale is busy trying to make a war-torn London a little easier for people to bear but however hard he tries, he cannot escape the truth that haunts him wherever he goes; that he is in love with Crowley.





	The Waves

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes an angel needs to take some time by the ocean to figure things out. 
> 
> (also, historical accuracy, what is that? Apologies in advance)

Aziraphale wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. His breath plumes in the cold night air but he feels as if he is burning up. Everyone around him is sweating, cheeks flushed, precious coats discarded or else wrapped around anyone they manage to find alive. The silence that has settled around them is unnerving and everyone is jumpy, made nervous by the flash of a match to light a cigarette or the cough of lungs filled with dust and smoke. When a baby is lifted from the wreckage, its feeble cry elicits a muted cheer but there is no real spirit to it. They will find more dead than living. Once again, Aziraphale has arrived too late. It is 1942 and it seems as if the war will never end.

As in all times of great suffering and tragedy, certainties narrow down to the essentials. Bombs fall, lives end, there are never enough miracles; and Aziraphale is in love with Crowley. 

When Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, whether it be after helping to shift rubble or comforting grief torn widows or using a few miracles here and there to increase the rations of some hungry families, the bag is there. It is not pride of place as such but it is placed it in such a way that his eyes fall on it whenever he walks through the door. No matter how exhausted, worn and hopeless Aziraphale feels, the sight of it never fails to elicit a jolt of something hot and life affirming before the guilt and the fear sink in. Flashes of that night return so often it sometimes feels as if Aziraphale is never truly thinking of anything else - Crowley’s silhouette down the aisle of the church, the tight pain in his voice as he refused to let consecrated ground stop him from coming to the rescue, the way their hands had brushed when he handed Aziraphale the bag of books. Some vital part of Aziraphale was left in the ruins of the church that day and he is afraid of what he will do to get it back. 

The war goes on and on; and Aziraphale cannot stop being in love with Crowley.

They have seen each other, briefly. The Arrangement, through it all, continues. But Aziraphale can no longer bring himself to invite Crowley to the shop nor does he accept any invitation to meet without planning his escape route in advance. Excuses are all too easy. He’s got blessings to administer on the other side of town, one of his neighbours is ill, the children at the local school need something other than empty bellies and cold beds for Christmas. Crowley offers to help him with this last one, looks so eager in fact that Aziraphale has to look away as he says the words he knows will cut the deepest.

‘I would have thought your lot rather approved of the current state of things.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Crowley says, most of his expression hidden by his glasses, ‘What they don’t know won’t hurt them.’

But Aziraphale cannot accept his help. He can do it alone. He is supposed to be alone. This much is evident from his myriad of unanswered appeals to Heaven. He doesn’t understand their silence. Can’t they see what’s happening? Don’t they think that this war might be too much for one angel to handle on their own? One angel and a demon who recklessly offered to bring a few moments of joy to children, no doubt contradicting whatever orders he had been given in the process. It’s too much, all of it, but Aziraphale must do it alone. So Aziraphale pulls away from his only friend, tries to bury himself in the work of alleviating as much of the suffering around him as he can, tries to forget. 

The stars are so bright in the blackout sky but Aziraphale cannot appreciate their beauty. Every glimpse of one is a burning, white-hot reminder that he is madly, irrevocably, dangerously in love with Crowley. 

Crowley takes the hint eventually and the last two years of the war pass without any contact between the pair of them at all. Aziraphale tells himself this is for the best. He moves the infamous bag so that it’s not the first thing he sees when he enters the shop. He pours forth the love inside him as best he can onto a grey and beaten world. This is what angels are supposed to do, this is what their love is for, and though Aziraphale knows he is not turning the tide or even doing anything more than shining a candle in the endless black of night, at least he is doing the work he was put on Earth to do. The only pain he causes is to himself. And he can bear that, he can bear anything, if it keeps Crowley safe.

And then, finally, the blessed day comes, the war ends. Aziraphale listens to the broadcast with his eyes closed. There is cheering from the buildings around him, joy unspooling across the world. It occurs to Aziraphale that he should be down on his knees thanking the Almighty for this. The end at last, an end to the bombs and the fear and the unforgivable atrocities that have rocked his faith down to its very foundations. He knows it is not for him to understand Her plan and he is grateful, now, for what he hopes will be a long-lasting and profound peace but when Aziraphale thanks God he remains standing.

Despite rationing and the lingering fear of all they have endured, people begin to celebrate. Aziraphale does not join in but he watches and allows his heart to be warmed by the sight of people making the best of whatever they have. He stays in the bookshop for days at a time, allowing himself the luxury of time, relieved not to feel the need to be anywhere else, but mingled with the relief is regret that only sharpens as the days and weeks roll on. Everyone else, it seems, has someone to share these precious moments with while Aziraphale’s someone is goodness only knows where. Hell, he supposes, probably aren’t especially pleased that the war has ended. Would they seek to blame Crowley for not prolonging the suffering? The complexities of keeping a demon safe and well on Earth have rarely been so acutely clear to him.

Camps are liberated. Prisoners return home. Lives go on. And nothing demonic whatsoever happens to or around Aziraphale. His love is a blade of fear twisting in his chest and he does not know what to do.

He has options. Aziraphale knows where Crowley lives, happens to find himself passing by three days in a row, lingering in the vicinity hopefully. He spends the entirety of one long, gloomy Sunday standing in St James’s park. He could write. He could be bold and direct and knock on his front door. But he can’t, he can’t. Miserable, Aziraphale catches himself hatching wild plots all of which involve him being in a ridiculous amount of danger for no logical reason, but would Crowley come? Teetering on the edge of the pavement one day, traffic rushing past, Aziraphale realises that his doubts and his love combined are driving him mad. It is completely within his power to end his own torment and yet he does not. It’s not safe yet. There is too much love too close to the surface, Crowley will see and…no, Aziraphale might have survived the worst of humanity but he cannot survive bringing about the destruction of his enemy. Not this enemy. Not Crowley.

London is declared safe at last and the children who have been sent away begin to return. Aziraphale, in contrast, decides he has to leave. His love leaves him no choice. 

Nowhere remains untouched by war but standing on the shore of the Isle of Skye, looking out over the grey blue sea, Aziraphale can believe that this is a place that has known only the weight of history in a geological sense. He breathes in the clean, cold air and holds it deep inside him. The cabin he is staying in, made habitable only through the use of a few miracles, is somewhere back along the path behind him. It is the only dwelling for miles. Loneliness might have been invented here.

Aziraphale is not sure how long he has been standing on the sand, long enough for the tide to retreat and return, retreat and return, the night closing in and opening into day once more. It should not be possible to cry this hard for this long, it would not be if he were human. Angels are permitted tears but Aziraphale doubts there is a single occupant of Heaven who would condone the present reason for his own. Love has hurt him before but never like this.

The sun rises, forcing forth another dawn. Aziraphale blinks against the weak light. He cannot stay on the beach forever waiting for answers to wash in with the tide. Scrubbing hard at his wet cheeks, Aziraphale succeeds only in making his skin sore. He lifts his eyes skywards though whether he is apologising or beseeching he never discovers. A sound distracts him, the soft but unmistakeable approach of someone else on his deserted stretch of wintery beach. The intrusion strikes Aziraphale hard. He is too raw to face anyone, and he should not have to, his present mood should have kept any curious mortals at bay. Heart heavy with both dread and a mounting sense of inevitability, Aziraphale risks a single glance to his left just as Crowley comes to a stop right beside him.

‘Morning, angel.’

There is nothing in Crowley’s tone to suggest there is anything remotely out of the ordinary about him appearing here where the edge of the world meets the silver sea. Aziraphale tries to bury his tear damp face deeper in the collar of his coat, vainly attempting to maintain the last few defences he has left.

‘What are you doing here?’

His voice is thick, choked with the pain he has poured into the silence and all that is left inside him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glimpses movement and assumes that Crowley has shrugged.

‘I was in the area.’

Neither one of them comments on the astronomical unlikelihood of him being required to conduct Hell’s business in precisely the same uninhabited spot as Aziraphale now stands. Crowley always knows how to find him, Aziraphale has no idea how and right now he does not want to, he is not sure he can bear the answer.

They stand side by side for a long time, lulled by the gentle movement of the sea. The wind picks up and the clouds coming in from the east darken as they move. The rain when it comes is a solid sheet travelling across the water towards them. Aziraphale watches it, waiting to be drenched, when something dark suddenly passes overhead. Crowley has unfurled an enormous black umbrella and is holding it over the pair of them. Only it’s not over both of them equally, Crowley is ensuring that Aziraphale will stay dry at the expense of himself. It isn’t much, not nearly enough, but Aziraphale finds himself taking a step closer so that they are suddenly standing very close together, both of them shielded, both of them safe.

Aziraphale’s hand brushes Crowley’s and it is like pressing against the point of a sword, like the breath before the last, the end and the beginning of everything.

‘Angel…’ Crowley is still looking straight ahead, shielded by his glasses, his expression unreadable. His hand, the one Aziraphale has touched, has been drawn into a fist. ‘Is everything…are you alright?’

Aziraphale sniffs which he supposes could be considered answer enough but seeing as Crowley has come all the way here to ask the question, it seems only fair to provide a slightly more comprehensive reply.

‘Oh yes,’ he says, ‘Just needed to get away for a bit. The last few years…’

Aziraphale trails away, unsure how to proceed without betraying himself. He’s on quicksand, unable to move forwards or back, already sinking. If he throws out a hand now, Crowley will catch it and he’ll know, he’ll _know_.

‘It was awfully hard, wasn’t it?’ he says, cringing away from his own words, ‘The war.’

The sound of the rain hitting the umbrella above them fills the silence. They have both seen a lot of war, a lot of everything. It is what they have not seen that lies between them now, those things unknown. 

‘Yes,’ says Crowley at last, turning fractionally towards Aziraphale, ‘So that’s what this is in aid of, is it?’

He gestures vaguely towards Aziraphale with a gloved hand and Aziraphale is suddenly aware of how he must look. He straightens his shoulders, lifts his head, tries far too late to look like he has not been crying his heart out to an indifferent ocean.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says. He does not want Crowley to continue his pursuit of the truth. 

Crowley’s lips thin ever so slightly and he turns back, facing outwards.

‘It wasn’t me then?’ he asks, dropping the words like stones. 

‘I’m sorry?’

The umbrella twitches in Crowley’s hand sending a shower of raindrops cascading down on every side.

‘It’s not important.’

There’s a moment when Crowley might have left it there and Aziraphale might have let him but before it passes Crowley forces the rest of the words out in a wild rush.

‘Did I do something wrong? Upset you? Is that why you…disappeared?’

The rain is dying down now but Crowley keeps the umbrella where it is. Aziraphale is glad of its shade. It won’t stop him being seen but it feels like protection somehow, makes him a little braver.

‘Oh, Crowley, no, that isn’t it at all.’

‘Then why?’ Crowley asks, and the curving blade of misery in the question meets the ache inside Aziraphale. A perfect match.

‘I think perhaps I needed to be alone, give myself some time to think,' says Aziraphale, the truth springing up quite easily, 'I wasn't expecting company but actually, now that you’re here, I think perhaps I've been alone long enough. Would you...would you care to step inside for some tea?'

Crowley makes no comment on how stark Aziraphale’s accommodation is, entering the tiny cottage and making the kettle boil without need of anything as trivial as a connected gas line or even running water. He makes tea the human way, swirling the hot water in the teapot, straining out the leaves. Aziraphale watches him, unable to look anywhere else. He doesn’t realise how cold he is until the warmth starts spreading through him and it has nothing to do with the logs that have ignited in the poorly ventilated fireplace. It is all Crowley, nothing but Crowley and oh, how Aziraphale loves him.

‘Crowley?’

‘Relax, angel,’ says Crowley with exasperation that could quite easily be described as fond, ‘I haven’t forgotten your precious biscuits.’

‘No, that’s not what I…’

The biscuits do look good though. Crowley pushes the whole plate towards him, sets down the tea, sits down on a wooden chair, swings an arm over the back of it and oh, the way he tilts his head back, the angle of his jaw, the exposed white skin of his neck. Aziraphale feels dizzy. What is he going to do with all of this new awareness? How did he ever think he could stay away? 

‘Crowley…’

‘What? I swear, I made the tea just how you like it, you haven’t even tasted it.’

‘Crowley…’

‘Don’t tell me you take sugar in it now. All that rationing must have ruined your palate.’

‘Crowley!’

Crowley’s jaw snaps shut and he looks away. Aziraphale wonders what Crowley thinks he is about to say, what he’s trying to stop from coming. He looks miserable all of a sudden, as wretched as the weather. Aziraphale takes a sip of his tea to steady himself. It’s perfect. Setting the cup down on its saucer, he forces himself to look at Crowley again. God help him, he is perfect too.

‘I won’t do it again.’

The words are out there now, he can't take them back. 

‘Do what?’ Crowley asks, frowning.

‘Disappear,’ says Aziraphale, ‘It wasn’t the right thing to do, vanishing like that without a word. And I know that keeping each other apprised of our locations isn’t part of the Arrangement but I rather think, well, maybe it would be a good idea if it was. Going forwards, I mean.’

‘Oh?’

Crowley is interested now. Cautious but interested. He does not point out that he does not need this amendment to the Arrangement or else he would not be sitting across the shipwreck of a table from him. Aziraphale hopes Crowley understands at least partially what he is offering, that it is all he can give.

‘What with one thing and another,’ Aziraphale says, doing his best to sound business-like, far too aware that he is talking himself into the kind of trouble he came all the way out here to avoid, ‘It might be best if we work more closely together, compare notes, make sure things aren’t getting out of hand. The last thing we need is another war. Unless of course you’d rather…’

‘No arguments here,’ says Crowley, cutting him off, ‘I’ll check in whenever you like.’

‘Right then.’ Aziraphale lifts his tea again but lowers it without drinking. ‘We’ll…we’ll be seeing more of each other then.’

And there it is. The slight lift of Crowley’s brows above his glasses, the twitch of one corner of his mouth, the way he suddenly can’t keep still. 

‘If that’s what you want, angel,’ he says, soft as breath.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathes in the steam rising from his cup. The wind is rattling the ancient shutters that barely cling to the window frame. He focuses on the sound, the slap slap slap of wood on stone. He can sense Crowley, his live wire presence so close in the confined space. Aziraphale cannot escape, he doesn’t want to, cannot bear to think of the gulf of years that has so often separated them. _Let me have this_, he thinks. _Let me be this close to him and I won’t ask for more._

‘So,’ says Crowley, drawing out the word slowly, testing the air, ‘You want me to check in on the bookshop for a bit?’

‘Oh no,’ says Aziraphale, ‘That won’t be necessary.’

Crowley glances at him, just once, and Aziraphale feels a shimmering bubble of hope appear fleetingly in the air between them. It disappears the moment Crowley looks away, leaving behind only the memory of iridescence as dazzling as the flash of a dark-bright wing.

They lapse once more into silence but it is the comfortable kind, as warm as the fire at Aziraphale’s back. Waves of feeling wash over him, every bit as relentless and unstoppable as the ocean beyond their barely adequate shelter. Aziraphale is aware of these waves as never before, aware too that he is no longer afraid of drowning. He can swim in these feelings, he realises. He wants to, needs to. Crowley never needs to know. 

Crowley stares absently out of the window, giving no indication that he is feeling anything but bored. Aziraphale sips his tea, takes another biscuit, wonders whether Crowley can feel anything of the crush of emotions inside him and what he makes of them if he can. Impossible not to love him, impossible to do anything with that love but be a little closer, stay a little longer, fight a little harder for moments like this.

Aziraphale will let the waves carry him home. London and the bookshop are waiting. And maybe, just maybe, so is Crowley. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Ocean" by Lady Antebellum


End file.
